


Scandal at Bartholomew Place

by musicprincess1990



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Eventual Romance, F/M, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Regency Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2018-11-21 18:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11363484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicprincess1990/pseuds/musicprincess1990
Summary: "It was common knowledge among anybody with any standing in society that Miss Mary Morstan and Miss Molly Hooper were among the most sought-after women in England." Regency AU, Sherlolly and Warstan.





	1. Arrival at Bartholomew Place

It was common knowledge among anybody with any standing in society that Miss Mary Morstan and Miss Molly Hooper were among the most sought-after women in England. Having both been orphaned and left with substantial fortunes, these two women, upon their coming of age, had more suitors at their feet than they knew how to handle on their own—the greater portion of these suitors being of the most abominable nature: fortune hunters. And being nearly the same age (Miss Morstan being the elder of the two), and therefore presented at around the same time, the young women inevitably met, and became the dearest of friends, rallying together as "unfortunate heiresses." One could hardly find the duo separated, save when they retired for the night, and each lady would assist and advise the other on all matters—particularly on matters of the heart. If one wished to woo Miss Morstan, one would also need to obtain the good opinion of Miss Hooper, and vice-versa. Thus, at the relative ages of twenty-two and twenty-one, and after two seasons, they had not been married.

Please do not believe these women to be shrewd or unforgiving; on the contrary, they were known to be of a very cheerful disposition, eager to find happiness, and to encourage it in all those of their acquaintance. And neither woman was too caught up in vanity or pride, and they always endeavored to show kindness to every soul. But they had been taught from a very young age to be cautious with their hearts, and were both quite determined never to give consequence to any man, except he prove his worth, his heart, and his disregard for the fortune he would gain. As of yet, not one man had passed muster.

And so, when Molly received an invitation to spend Easter Sunday, and the three weeks following, at the country home of her cousin, Sir Michael Stamford, it hardly came as a surprise when she replied to the letter of invitation stating that both she and Miss Morstan would be in attendance at Bartholomew Place. Indeed, it was almost expected, and Sir Michael duly wrote his young cousin to assure her that they would both be most welcome, and his wife, Lady Anne, looked forward to introducing both women to their friends—in particular, those of the male variety. Indeed, she was very much anticipating St. George's Day, for her husband had agreed to give a ball that evening, and nearly every guest they had invited would be in attendance.

The young heiresses arrived at Bartholomew Place on Friday, the seventh day of April, the first of the guests to arrive. Lady Anne was all grace and kindness, ever the dutiful hostess, but genuinely happy to see her cousin and her friend. She happily reported news that she was increasing, due to deliver in the early autumn, and the three women spent the greater portion of the afternoon and evening talking over this joyful news, though of course, they allowed time for prayer and reading of scripture. Lady Anne explained they were to be joined by the remainder of the party on the morrow, a total of twelve people, and all would attend Sunday's Easter service. Molly commented that the vicar, Mr. Ashcroft, would likely die of shock at the overwhelming number of worshippers in his congregation.

As the firelight faded, Lady Anne excused herself, retiring for the evening, with her husband following not far behind. Thus, Molly and Mary were left to themselves.

"What a merry assembly this is sure to be," Mary remarked dryly.

Molly, recognizing her friend's acerbic tone, swatted her arm lightly. "Now, Mary. I'm sure it will be quite a splendid occasion. Anne has never failed at giving a delightful party, and Michael is a very good judge of character. He would not dream of inviting any rakes to stay in his home."

"I believe you entirely," Mary replied, "but in my experience, rakes are entirely too adept at hiding their true nature, only revealing it when it suits their purpose"

Allowing this, Molly nodded. "This is true. But we must hope for the best, while still being on our guard. And perhaps we might be pleasantly surprised."

Mary's response was a quiet laugh. "You are so very optimistic, Molly. I only hope you are right."

With nothing more to say, and no energy left in their persons, they, too, retired for the evening. Mary wasted no more thought than necessary on the coming events, merely hoping that Molly was right, and that their stay would not be marred by fortune-seeking scoundrels. Molly, however, being a hopeless romantic, and ever optimistic about the future, allowed herself to daydream of a tall and handsome stranger, who would sweep her off her feet and steal her heart, but not before offering his in return. The thought made her smile, and she drifted off to sleep, with pleasant dreams of a happy future.


	2. A Study in Tree-Climbing

Sherlock Holmes detested house parties.

It was only out of indebtedness that he had accepted Sir Michael Stamford’s invitation to spend Easter and the following weeks at Bartholomew Place, as well as the fact that he had extended the invitation to include Dr. John Watson, Sherlock’s friend and colleague. Sherlock grimaced at the memory of Sir Michael’s assistance with one of his cases. It had been through his generosity and social standing that Sherlock had been able to continue working on that particular case—the one with the peg-legged woman—long enough for him to solve it—the sister's husband had been the culprit. He hated being indebted to people, particularly when such debts necessitated accepting invitations to house parties.

“I wish you would at least _attempt_ to enjoy yourself,” Watson muttered from across the carriage.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Forgive me if I refuse to be dishonest. House parties such as this are frightfully dull, and serve no actual purpose.”

“Their purpose is to meet new people,” his friend responded.

“I don’t like _people_ ,” he spat out the last word with disdain. “Nor do they care for me, which is why I keep my distance, and I am perfectly content to continue doing so.”

Watson laughed without humor. “Good Lord, Holmes. You will _never_ find a wife.”

“Then it is a very good thing I do not want one.”

With a sigh, Watson turned his attention out the window at the passing trees. It appeared he had no further argument, for which Sherlock was immeasurably grateful. Watson’s latest personal mission, it seemed, was to find Sherlock a wife. Despite repeated insistence that he had no desire or legitimate reason to procure one, his friend remained determined. Sherlock found it maddening. He supposed, however, that Watson’s intentions, however misguided, were honorable. He only wished to see him happy, and believed that marriage was the best route to happiness. He did not understand why Sherlock disagreed, and had decided that it was simply because he had not found the right woman.

The thought made Sherlock scoff. Women were of little use to him. He certainly respected his mother, and thanked her for giving him life, but apart from that, women were creatures to be avoided at any lengths.

Upon their arrival at Bartholomew Place, Sherlock and Watson were customarily greeted by Sir Michael and his wife, Lady Anne. Sherlock wasted little time, offering a few obligatory words of greeting, before asking to be shown to his room. Once there, he make quick work of unpacking his belongings, and set out for a walk in the park. Such an activity held little excitement, but at least outside, in the calm and relative quiet, he could let his mind work, and perhaps might stumble upon a case. Donning his hat and coat, Sherlock walked quickly, heading directly for the woods. His mind worked best when surrounded by the tall buildings of London; here, the trees were as close as one could get.

However, he soon realized that his quest for solitude had been in vain. Standing at the foot of one of the grand trees was a woman, her back to him. Sherlock contemplated returning to the house—at least his room would grant him some privacy—but as he watched the woman, he found himself puzzled by her actions. She peered up the trunk of the tree, then seemed to observe the portion in front of her, and on occasion, would place her gloved hands against the bark. Sherlock eventually deduced, as she bent at the waist to look more closely at a section near the base, that she was likely to attempt to climb.

His mouth twitched with the effort of hiding a smirk; this would certainly be entertaining. He took slow, quiet steps, careful not to disturb so much as a twig beneath his feet. At length, he came near enough to hear her quietly muttering to herself, though he could not discern the words she spoke. After several minutes, she ceased her observation, and began her attempt. She made it less than a foot above the ground before gravity forced her back down. With a huff, she tried again, this time gaining a great deal of height, and even managing to grasp the lowest branch, which was perhaps a foot above Sherlock’s head, before losing her footholds.

An astonished cry escaped her lips, and he could see her fingers slipping. Should she fall, it was likely she would twist an ankle. Sherlock chose this moment to intervene. Positioning himself just so, he said in a loud voice, “I have you, madam.” A second cry sounded, and her grip loosened. Sherlock caught her with ease, tucking one arm behind her legs, the other around her waist, and bending his knees to give greater support. A good number of leaves fluttered to the ground around them, and the branch swayed from the sudden release of weight. Sherlock took a moment to ascertain that all was now safe, before turning his attention to the young woman he had rescued.

Her arms had instinctively wound around his neck, thus he could see her face quite clearly. Beneath the serviceable bonnet, a pair of wide, brown eyes stared up at him. Her complexion was fair, with a light dusting of freckles, which suggested a few too many walks outside _without_ a bonnet. Her lips parted as she took quick, panted breaths, and he noticed a faint blush blossoming beneath her skin.

“I-I am so s-sorry,” she stammered breathlessly.

Sherlock fought a smile. “Perhaps you ought to be more careful about which trees you attempt to climb. You might choose one with lower-hanging branches next time.”

Her blush deepened, and her eyes widened. “I don’t… well, that is to say…”

Chuckling, Sherlock carefully set her back on her feet. “Do not worry yourself,” he said in a reassuring voice. “You may be assured of my secrecy.”

She cleared her throat, her head bowed as she curtsied. “Thank you, sir.”

Before Sherlock could say another word, the woman turned on her heel and scampered off toward the house. _She must be another of Sir Michael’s guests_ , he surmised, though this was hardly surprising. He was likely among the last to arrive, so late in the day. Regardless, Sherlock thought it would be best, upon his return to the house, if he pretended not to know her. Indeed, it would hardly be untrue, as he neither knew her name nor why she had made the decision to climb a tree. Though he must admit, he was undeniably curious as to the reason, and resolved to ask her at the first opportunity.

* * *

“Stop laughing!” Molly exclaimed, burying her face in a pillow.

Mary, the chortling offender, acquiesced with some difficulty. “Oh, Molly! Only you could find yourself in such a predicament as this!”

“It was not funny. It was humiliating! How I must have looked to him!”

With another quiet laugh, Mary placed a hand on Molly’s arm. “I am sure it was not so terrible. And if you think of it, it is highly unlikely you will see the man again.”

Molly could not hide her disappointment. “I almost wish that were untrue. Mortifying as the ordeal may have been, he was… exceedingly handsome.”

“Was he?” her friend asked with a teasing glint in her eye. Blushing furiously, Molly nodded. “Well, now I _must_ know! Tell me, what did he look like?”

Sighing, Molly obliged. “He was very tall. He had dark hair which hung in curls across his forehead, a very sharp, angular face… and his eyes…” she trailed off, her body growing warm with the memory. “They were mesmerizing. Neither green nor blue, but a swirling mix of the two.”

“You must have been very close, indeed, to have been able to observe him in such detail.”

Blushing yet again, Molly replied, “Mere inches from his lips.”

The two women giggled and gossiped for the remainder of the afternoon, until their lady’s maids came to prepare them for dinner. Molly’s maid, Hannah, laid out a white gown with embroidered flowers lining the sleeves, neckline, and hem, and included a pink sash at the empire waist. Once dressed, with her honey-colored hair plaited and pinned at the back of her head, Molly felt very pretty indeed. Mary returned soon after, in a gown of palest blue, her hair likewise pinned, with a few curled tendrils framing her face. They descended toward the parlor together, arm in arm, ready to meet their fellow guests.

Upon entering the parlor, Molly’s eyes lighted on a familiar gentleman in the corner, and her heart all but stopped. It was the very gentleman who had saved her only that afternoon! _Oh, fiddle_ , she thought with embarrassment. She ought to have known he would be a guest of her cousin. What other explanation could there be for his coming upon her at just the right moment? He very likely had witnessed her struggles from the house, and had taken pity on her, intent to relieve her, as well as to remind her that nothing truly went unseen. Indeed, she was sure he must have thought her quite the simpleton for not having remembered this, and for making such a foolhardy attempt in the first place. _Oh, fiddle_ , she thought again.

Molly was blessed enough to receive time to compose herself, being introduced first to some of the other guests in the room. A Mr. and Mrs. Hathaway, who appeared to be very good people; Mr. Thomas Baines, whose freckles made her feel infinitely better about her own; Mr. George Elwin, a gentleman with graying hair and apparently no interest in anyone or anything around him; and a Mr. Edward Royston, who appeared to be the fanciest fop upon which she had ever laid eyes. She fought back a smile at this particular gentleman’s ensemble. His slim figure was clad in an overly-bright peach vest and coat, his trousers pristine and white, and a flawlessly shined pair of Hessians adorned his feet. He had two fobs attached to a watch, which he carelessly dangled and swung with one hand, while he used the other to take hers and bring it to his lips.

“I am quite delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Hooper, and you as well, Miss Morstan,” he said in a syrupy voice, but genuine happiness radiated through his eyes. Molly felt herself growing wary, but eventually concluded that this man was harmless, and simply enjoyed the company of everyone he met.

Molly’s heart gave a painful _ka-thump_ as she turned, at last, to meet her rescuer. She took a moment to work up the courage to meet his eyes, certain she would find mockery, or disapproval, within them. As it happened, she found neither, but rather, she saw something akin to teasing curiosity. And again, she was struck by their piercing color; they seemed to change color with the slightest movement of his head—one moment being blue, the next being green, and at times appearing grey. They were the most beautiful eyes she had ever beheld.

“Mr. Holmes, I present to you my cousin, Miss Molly Hooper. Molly, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

Her heart gave another stuttering beat as she recognized his name. It was not highly thought of for women to read the morning newspapers, but as of late, Molly had taken to reading them in secret, because of the man before her. Several months ago, she had overheard a pair of gentlemen in town discussing a mystery he had solved—something about a woman in scarlet—and one of them had dropped the newspaper. Molly, after ascertaining that she was not being observed, retrieved it, and tucked it into the folds of her cloak. Upon arriving home, she devoured the tale of Sherlock Holmes’ latest case solved, and immediately thirsted for more. His adventures were far more thrilling than anything Ann Radcliffe could concoct! Henceforth, she had, with the assured secrecy of her servants, taken the morning paper each day, in the hopes of another tale from Mr. Holmes. Since her introduction to his adventures, she had learned of eight mysteries solved. She had always wondered what the man himself would be like, but never in her wildest dreams would she have presumed she would _meet_ him! Nor that he would save her from a silly attempt to climb a tree.

Molly was brought out of her reverie by her own embarrassment, and was relieved to see that her absence from coherency had not been lengthy enough to warrant attention. She felt a blush warm her face as she dipped into a clumsily executed curtsy. She hid her wobbling satisfactorily, but could feel her hands begin to tremble. Mr. Holmes bowed his own head in greeting, his eyes still shining with curiosity and obvious amusement, but they were never mocking. For that, she was immeasurably grateful.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Hooper,” his deep baritone voice rumbled.

“Likewise, Mr. Holmes,” she forced a nervous smile.

She received no further time with the man, and was shunted along to meet the next guest. He was not a very tall man, but he held himself with all the poise and polish of the man she had just left. Something in his posture suggested he might be a soldier, though he wore no regimentals. Beneath his moustache, his lips curled into a smile. His dark eyes seemed kind, but also suggested great loss. Molly was instantly curious. He was introduced as Mr. Holmes’ closest friend, Dr. John Watson.

A moment after their introduction, his eyes slid to Mary, and something in them changed. They grew wide with obvious admiration, and his smile deepened. Molly fought a grin of her own as she watched them exchange greetings. Mary, it appeared, was not to be so easily moved by this man. Molly saw by the faint blush that she was not wholly indifferent, but there was an obvious distrust in her eyes. She felt saddened by this truth; Mary would not open her heart to anyone unless he proved absolutely worthy.

The last of the guests, a Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins, as well as a daughter, Miss Janine Hawkins, came forward for their introductions. Mr. Hawkins was polite, if distant, but his face lit up as he presented his daughter. Miss Hawkins was exceptionally beautiful, her chestnut hair curled and pinned in such a way as to frame her perfectly symmetrical face. Dark brown eyes similarly appraised Molly, and she did not much care for the disdainful look she was given. She was very quickly disposed to dislike Mrs. Hawkins, with her loud, commanding voice and blunt statements. Moments after the introduction was made, Mrs. Hawkins stated, her voice penetrating the quiet, “I understand you and Miss Morstan have acquired substantial fortunes.”

A hush settled over the room; it was terribly improper for Mrs. Hawkins to say such a thing. Molly had half a mind to put the woman in her place, but was saved by the appearance of a servant, declaring dinner to be ready. Cousin Michael requested that there be no distinctions of rank at their meals, and requested that each gentleman enter with any lady he might choose. Molly suppressed the urge to look for Mr. Holmes, certain he would not dream of approaching her. Her presumption proved false, as the very gentleman himself neared her, and her heart stood still.

“May I have the honor of escorting you in to dinner, Miss Hooper?”

“You may,” she curtsied—this time not nearly so clumsily—and accepted his arm. She tried very hard not to think of the obvious strength of his arm, beneath the fabric of his coat. Instead, she put her attention toward each step, hoping against hope she would not trip.

Molly found herself seated, regrettably, across from the Hawkinses. To her relief, however, Mary was immediately to her right, with Mr. Holmes on her left. Mary placed a comforting hand on Molly’s arm, giving her an encouraging smile, her eyes flitting toward Mr. Holmes. It was not surprising in the least that Mary had deduced Mr. Holmes’ identity as her savior from this afternoon. Mary had always had a very keen mind, as well as an uncanny ability to recall the slightest of details. Despite her friend’s supportive gestures, Molly could not help but feel queasy.

The first course was brought in, and Molly forced each bite. Her mind raced in a search for some way to make conversation. In the midst of this, her companion’s voice broke through her thoughts.

“I can no longer suppress my curiosity, Miss Hooper,” he said quietly, so as not to be overheard by the other guests. “I must ask you. Why did you want to climb that tree?”

Molly’s face burned with humiliation. “I… would rather not say.”

Though she did not meet his gaze, she could feel it fixed upon her. “Why will you not tell me?”

She took a sip of her water. “Because, Mr. Holmes, I have suffered enough mortification for today, and my self-preservation instincts are now in full force.”

He remained quiet for a short moment, then began speaking very fast. “Very well, perhaps I can guess. Based on the facts of observation alone, I believe I may safely say there was something within the tree that caught your interest. Judging by the cloudy weather this afternoon, as well as the freckles I can clearly see on your nose, it was not a parasol which had been swept away by a gust of wind. Certainly you would not have troubled yourself with that. It might possibly have been an animal of some sort—a bird, perhaps—but you must have been aware that any attempt at approaching such a creature would inevitably have frightened it away. One might surmise that it was simply for the sake of climbing, but before the attempt, you had been frequently looking upward, obviously at something within the branches above. With the most obvious of possibilities ruled out, I can now do nothing but resort to asking you outright.” He paused. “What was in that tree?”

Molly stared in amazement at him. His skills of observation rivaled Mary’s, and she felt certain, if he wished to, he could see into her very soul. So thoroughly unnerved by the thought was she, it took her far longer than it should to respond to his question. Only when his brow furrowed did she realize she had not replied.

“I-it was a rose.”

Now, his eyebrows flew upward. “A rose?” he asked, disbelief obvious in his voice.

She looked down. “There was a-a white rose. Wild. Just sitting there, on one of the branches. I could not think how it had gotten up there, so I wanted to investigate. And…” her voice faltered as her humiliation magnified. “It was… lovely.”

Mr. Holmes did not say anything more. Shamed almost to tears, Molly dared not even look at him again. She put on a brave face, however, forcing herself to converse with the others. Topics remained light and trivial. She could handle trivial. At the conclusion of the meal, Molly excused herself, claiming a headache and a desire for sleep. Only Mary seemed doubtful of her reasons, though she would not have been surprised if Mr. Holmes, too, did not believe her. Indeed, she did not even spare him a glance to determine the truth of this assumption. With mumbled apologies to Cousin Michael and Anne, she turned on her heel and fled, just as she had before, from Sherlock Holmes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? Sherlock seems a little out of character, I know, but in this time period, men were raised and expected to be very kind and respectful. Though we all know Sherlock doesn’t care much for society and its norms, he does care about specific people, and not embarrassing them, or causing them pain. He knows it would embarrass John and Stamford if he were to be outright rude to these people. At this point, he doesn't know Molly well enough to care about her, but he’s intrigued, and we all know how Sherlock loves puzzling things (and people) out. ;)


	3. Easter Morning

It took every ounce of courage Molly possessed to face the other guests (one in particular) the following day. Only the reminder that the first part of the morning included a walk to the parish for Easter service, and therefore nearly an hour of _no_ socialization, was enough to urge her from her bed. In addition, she had already gone to the trouble of purchasing a new gown and bonnet for this very occasion. It seemed a pity to waste it.

With great reluctance, Molly allowed Hannah to help her dress. Molly did not speak, merely watching the young maid in the mirror as she worked. At one point, their eyes met, and Hannah frowned. “Are you all right, miss?” she asked politely.

Molly sighed. “I am well, Hannah, thank you. I am merely dreading this day.”

“But it’s Easter Sunday. Should it not be a happy day?”

“It _should_ ,” she replied. “But I find it difficult this morning to find happiness.”

Hannah smiled sympathetically, then her smile turned almost mischievous. “Well, we’ll just have to make you the prettiest girl in the party. You’ll turn some gentleman’s head, and that’ll turn those blue-devils around right!”

Molly’s stomach tied into knots. She didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to herself. Although, the thought of turning a certain gentleman’s head was far more appealing than it ought to be, and she found herself acquiescing. Hannah started on her hair, which had been set in curlers the night before. She left a few dainty ringlets to frame her face, and pinned the remainder into an intricate design in the back. Molly was amazed at the finished product, particularly when combined with the new gown. The pale yellow chiffon worked well with her creamy skin, and the bonnet bore a white ribbon and several flowers of different shades. It was simpler than what she would undoubtedly see on the other ladies in the parish, but it suited her, and she felt very pretty indeed.

Donning a spencer jacket and gloves, she was deemed fit to proceed to the entrance, where the rest of the party would be waiting. Molly pulled her white silk gloves on as she went, scarcely paying any mind to where she walked. She would reflect, later, that she was fortunate not to have bumped into anyone, nor tripped over her own feet as she went. At length, she arrived at the top of the staircase, and was able to see the other guests stood waiting.

Mr. and Mrs. Hathaway stood apart from the others, not out of snobbery, but an obvious desire to converse privately. Molly could see they loved each other very much, and the thought warmed her. Not far off, Mr. Royston was swinging his fobs and leaning idly against a wall. He looked quite a sight in his sea-green apparel. He spoke with Mr. Baines and Mr. Elwin, whose backs were turned to her. She spotted Mary, deep in conversation with Dr. Watson. Molly said a quick, silent prayer in her heart for something good to come their way. She felt confident that Dr. Watson was a good sort of man, though she barely knew the gentleman, and could see Mary liked him. She did believe her friend was due a bit of happiness.

Cousin Michael and Lady Anne were seated on a fainting couch together, chatting pleasantly. The Hawkinses formed their own private clique, speaking quietly among one another. Molly was not the least bit surprised to see very lavish and expensive bonnets atop the heads of both Mrs. and Ms. Hawkins. Molly’s dislike for the trio intensified as she watched the obvious judgment in their gazes as they observed each of their peers. She forced her mind away from thoughts of what they might be saying about _her_. Instead, she focused on looking for the one person who did not appear to be in the room.

A moment later, Cousin Michael and Lady Anne, having noted her presence, announced that it was time to depart. Molly’s heart sank as she realized Mr. Holmes had not joined them. _Does he not attend church? Or has he left the party altogether? Did my silliness repel him? Where is he?_ These thoughts accompanied her on the walk to the parish, and would not be silenced until she ventured to feed her curiosity.

“Pardon me, Dr. Watson,” she said at length, “but is Mr. Holmes not joining us?”

“No, he left early this morning.” Molly felt her spirits plummet, until Dr. Watson went on, “He will very likely be waiting for us at the church.”

“Oh,” she breathed as relief swept through her. He hadn’t left, he had simply left _early_. Molly ducked her head to hide her blush and smile beneath her bonnet.

The walk was short, as the church was nestled in a nearby corner of Cousin Michael’s property. A small grove of trees surrounded the stone edifice, beyond which one could just make out the top of the steeple. The church itself was built over three hundred years earlier, and was in remarkable condition for its age. Time had roughened the stone walls, yet they stood, proud and strong, defying time and all her laws. Molly smiled as they approached; she had visited this parish many times in her youth, and was glad to have returned. It felt as much like home as her own country manor always had.

Mr. Ashcroft, a small, stout man with thinning hair and a kind smile, greeted each visitor with a smile and a “Good day!” Mrs. Ashcroft, a tiny wisp of a thing, stood at her husband’s side, holding his arm and coughing daintily into a handkerchief. Mrs. Ashcroft had been close to death for as long as Molly could remember, and despite the healthy pink in her cheeks, it seemed she would remain close to death for many years to come. Molly bit her lip to suppress a laugh.

“Ah, Ms. Hooper!” Mr. Ashcroft greeted her. “Delightful to see you again!”

“Thank you,” she curtsied. “And how are the girls, Mr. Ashcroft?”

“Wonderful, yes,” he replied. “They are just inside, if you would like to see them?”

Molly smiled. “I shall be certain to say hello. And Mrs. Ashcroft, you are looking well!”

“Oh!” the woman cried from behind her handkerchief. “Thank you, my dear, you are ever so kind do say so, though I must say I feel terribly _ill!_ I’m sure I shall catch my death in this chill.”

“Take comfort in the fact that you do not _look_ ill,” Molly grinned.

Mrs. Ashcroft’s eyes sparkled a bit. “Yes, indeed! What a great comfort that will be, to know I shall look healthy and lovely in my coffin as they bury me!”

“Come, come,” Mr. Ashcroft laughed, “Enough of that kind of talk, Mrs. Ashcroft. You’ll soon scare off the entire parish! At any rate, we mustn’t monopolize Ms. Hooper, and I must ready myself for the sermon. Lovely as always, Ms. Hooper,” he added with a toothy grin.

Molly curtsied and turned to enter the church. The familiarity of her surroundings and the pleasant conversation had all but driven thoughts of a certain gentleman from her mind. Indeed, she spared not a single thought for him as she stepped inside, her attention being immediately caught by a pair of young girls, both about thirteen, sprinting toward her whilst calling out her name. She laughed heartily at their enthusiasm, and eagerly accepted the hugs they offered.

“Caroline, Charlotte, how wonderful to see you!”

“We’ve missed you ever so much, Molly!” Caroline cried.

“Well, let me look at you! Stand up straight!” she commanded with an authoritative voice. The girls obeyed, puffing their chests out for good measure. Molly walked a slow circle around them, pretending to be a stuffy old governess judging every single detail of their appearance. The two teenagers chewed on their lips in an attempt to hide their giggles. Molly stopped in front of them, and dropped the façade. “Goodness, what beautiful young women you are! You must stop growing, immediately!”

They laughed cheerfully. “We can’t just _stop_ _growing_ , Molly!” Charlotte insisted.

She sighed in feigned dismay. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to bear it.”

With a last embrace from the girls, she shooed them off to sit with their mother. Mrs. Ashcroft began scolding them, likely a reprimand for their behavior, but Molly knew it was half-hearted at best. They made a pretty picture, this small family, and not for the first time, Molly ached to know the joy of family for herself. Though she had loved her father very much, and had been well-loved in return, she had never known the joy of a whole, happy family. Her mother had died while she was very young. She could not even remember the woman. And Father, though loving, was always distant and sad. Molly could only hope and pray that her own marriage and family life would be less troubled.

With the Ashcrofts seated in their pew, Molly turned to look for Mary. Her gaze was caught by a pair of blue-green eyes at the back of the chapel, which, unbeknownst to her, had been following her every move since her arrival. She swallowed thickly as she stared back at Sherlock Holmes, trying simultaneously to suppress a blush, and to discern the intense look he was giving her.

“There you are!” a voice said, and she was relieved to find Mary approaching her. “I have found an empty pew near the front, shall we take it?”

Molly nodded in response, sparing a glance in the direction of the man seated in back. He was no longer looking at her, his eyes now following Mr. Ashcroft, who was approaching the stand. Molly remained in a state of dazed bewilderment throughout the service, her mind fixed on the image of Sherlock Holmes’ piercing gaze. What could he mean, staring at her like that? Surely he didn’t… that is, there was no possible chance he could be… forming an attachment… could he?

* * *

Following the service, the party of guests returned to Bartholomew Place, and dispersed toward various solitary activities. For Molly’s part, she was inclined to take a turn about the garden. The flowers were all in bloom, and she had hopes of finding another wild rose, as the last one had been stolen from her. She still blushed at the memory of being caught doing something so unladylike. Her blush deepened at the recollection of being caught in a pair of strong arms. Pushing these thoughts quickly aside, Molly changed into a gown more appropriate for being out-of-doors, and tiptoed toward the exit.

The atypical sunshine of the morning had given way to the usual cloudy grey, though it did not seem likely to storm. Molly walked with determination toward the garden, seeking out a particular bush in the far corner. Anne had once complained that this bush never failed to produce wild roses, despite the work that had been put into it, by her own hand as well as the gardeners’. Only Molly’s insistence that wild roses were the prettiest, _because_ they were wild, had saved the bush from being torn up and used as tinder. Molly observed the bush, searching for any sign of bud or petal, only to be disappointed by the omnipresent green. She sank onto a nearby bench with a sigh. It appeared she would have to wait a while longer for the roses to bloom.

“Ms. Hooper?”

She let out a startled cry, putting a hand over her thudding heart. As she looked to determine the identity of the speaker, her nerves were not calmed at all. _Of course_ it was Sherlock Holmes. Those eyes were alight with his constant curiosity, and, it seemed, constant amusement at her antics. Molly took a deep breath to calm herself (to no avail), and said, “Forgive me, Mr. Holmes. I did not see you.”

“I imagined not,” he said simply.

Molly waited a moment for him to say more, but was met with an awkward silence. Wringing her hands in discomfort, she struggled for words. “Wh-what brings you to the garden?” _Oh, fiddle, what a stupid question!_

He seemed to falter for a moment, but the moment passed by so quickly, she had to wonder if she had imagined it. “I find I can think better out of doors,” he replied. “The trees are an enormous help. You wouldn’t understand,” he added, looking almost bored.

“Oh?” she asked, feeling all the more curious. He did not respond, so she ventured to take a guess on her own. “Is it because they remind you of something?”

Mr. Holmes blinked twice. “That’s… not far off, actually.”

Molly smiled, pleased with herself for grasping even a portion of the inner workings of his mind. “What do they remind you of?”

He hesitated, seeming to deliberate, then he replied, “They remind me of London. London is a jungle of tall buildings and noise, which, to me, is the perfect environment. My mind rebels at stagnation, and there is plenty of that to be had in the country. Still,” he went on, “the height of the trees and the sounds of nature are infinitely preferable to the stuffy silence of the indoors.”

“I will never disagree on that point,” Molly admitted. “I far prefer to be out-of-doors than in.”

His eyes moved to her again. “Which brings me to the reason I interrupted your privacy,” he said. “I would ask you a question.”

“Oh,” she said in surprise. “Well, you may feel free to ask.”

“It concerns that bush,” he indicated toward the rose bush she had been examining just minutes ago, and she felt warmth rise to her cheeks. “You seemed to be very intent on finding something, just as you had been with the tree yesterday. I can only assume you were looking for another rose.”

Molly could not hide her embarrassment, especially upon hearing the mocking tone of voice. Strange, considering he had been kind to her, if a bit too inquisitive for her liking, and even stranger when she recalled the look in his eyes at the church today. Clearly, there was no danger of Mr. Holmes’ falling in love with her.

“Yes,” she finally replied in a small voice. “I was looking for a rose. This bush in particular produces only wild roses, which happen to be my favorite. The rose in the tree yesterday was the first one I had seen, and I came here today in the hopes that there might be more.”

He nodded, as if processing this information. “And there is some significance to the wild rose?”

She frowned at him. “How did you know that?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I merely observed, and came to a conclusion based on my observations.” He looked at her again. “Am I incorrect?”

She sighed. “No, you are correct. I… had a governess who told me I was like a wild rose. Silly,” she added with a small laugh.

“Very,” he agreed, and she winced at the sting his short reply gave. “Comparing people to plants. How utterly ridiculous.”

“Well, we all do silly things,” she countered, hoping she did not sound as wounded as she felt.

Mr. Holmes glanced sharply at her then, as if her words were offensive to him. “I will not intrude on your privacy any longer. Good day, Ms. Hooper.” And with a short bow of his head, he turned on his heel and left. Molly watched his retreating form with dismay. No, he was certainly _not_ falling in love with her, of that she was convinced. And the cruelty of his remarks made her wonder why she had ever liked him to begin with… but did not stop her from liking him regardless. He was cruel, but he was honest. There was something to be said for that. Having met an endless supply of lying scoundrels, it was as a breath of fresh air to meet a man who would speak only the truth, even if that truth stung a little.

However much she might like him, though, she knew better now than to hope for the impossible. And Sherlock Holmes was easily the most impossible man she had ever known.


	4. Secrets Revealed

Sherlock started from a deep thought at the sound of a door opening. He instantly recognized the gait as that of his friend, Watson, and subsequently did not bother to acknowledge his presence. He was sitting very comfortably deep within the library, dusting the insides of his disused mind palace, as he had been for the past twenty or thirty minutes, and was loathe to move from his position. It was of little matter, as Watson would certainly deem it necessary to speak in a matter of moments.

“Well, then.” _There it is_. “That was a pleasant service.” Sherlock remained silent and still. Undoubtedly, Watson had further to say. “Ms. Morstan looked very well.” _Good Lord_ , Sherlock thought with an internal roll of his eyes, as his remained shut. “As did Ms. Hooper.”

Sherlock looked at his friend then, hearing the change in his voice. Dr. Watson meant to imply… something. He was unsure what that might be. “Whatever you have to say,  Watson, please do spit it out and let me return to my thoughts.”

Watson merely smiled, used to this sort of response from his friend. “Merely observing, that is all.”

“Feel free to take your mundane observations elsewhere,” Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes again, and preparing to retreat into his mind palace once more.

“Perhaps you noticed that Ms. Hawkins looked well.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. “For God’s sake, Watson, is the whole purpose of this conversation to inform me that every young, single woman in this party ‘looked well’?” he spat out the last with venom.

“Well, I had rather you did _not_ have your eye on Ms. Morstan,” he said with a grin, “as I have an interest in her myself. But any other single woman, yes.”

“We have had this discussion before, Watson. I have no intention to marry.”

Watson didn’t so much as blink. “And I stand by my argument that you simply haven’t met the right woman. Perhaps one of the ladies here might turn your head.”

“My head is infallible, Watson. It is my greatest asset, and therefore, my greatest strength. It cannot be turned by anything other than work, and most _certainly_ cannot be turned by some hopeful bride with no interest in anything other than gowns and parties. Women are of no use to me, unless they are victim, witness, or culprit of a crime.” 

Sherlock firmly shut his eyes, hoping Watson would simply leave it at that. Mercifully, he heard a sigh, followed by retreating footsteps. His peace disturbed, however, Sherlock was unable to return to his mind palace. Instead, he found himself thumbing through the pages of a book. It turned out to be _A New System of Chemical Philosophy_ , written by John Dalton—a volume he had memorized years before. Nevertheless, in the face of utter boredom, Sherlock conceded, and read.

His privacy was again interrupted by the sound of unfamiliar footsteps. Judging by the lightness of each step, they belonged to a woman. The footsteps slowed as they entered the library, and Sherlock heard the faintest brushing sound, though he could not be certain of the cause. Glancing through the opening between book and shelf, he caught a glimpse of a white gown and an outstretched hand, reverently stroking the spines of each book she passed. He could not see enough to determine the identity of the lady, but judging by her affinity for books, he hazarded a guess it was _not_ Ms. Hawkins or her odious mother. That left Mrs. Hathaway, Lady Anne, Ms. Morstan, or Ms. Hooper.

A muscle twitched in his jaw at the thought of Ms. Hooper. Everything in her behavior and words suggested she was perfectly ordinary—another simpering little girl, with plans to be mistress of a grand household, and no thought for anything beyond such a life. And yet, something in her eyes hinted at intelligence and a thirst for adventure. Nothing could prove this, of course, except further observance and conversation. However, engaging in these might be disastrous. Women were notorious for taking a simple question, such as, “How do you do, madam?” to be an offer of marriage. If he attempted to converse with Ms. Hooper, there was every possibility that she would mistake him for a man looking to secure a wife. And that, he most certainly was _not_.

The woman in the library stopped abruptly, her fingers resting on a small tome on a high shelf. Sherlock watched as she struggled, but eventually removed the book from its place, and turned around. Finally able to see her face, Sherlock’s jaw clenched. It _would_ be Ms. Hooper, of course. Sherlock turned to his own reading, though he found it difficult to concentrate. Difficult became impossible, however, as her voice filled the quiet library. At first, she muttered incoherently, but eventually, her words became distinguishable.

“’In vain I have struggled,’” she read aloud with feeling. “‘It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.’”

 _Sentimental drivel_ , Sherlock groaned inwardly. There, his point was proved, without even the trouble of having to speak with her. She was ordinary, and not worth his time. He suppressed the urge to vomit as Ms. Hooper giggled, and closed the book, returning it to the shelf. She continued to browse, and in a moment, chose another volume, which she opened at random, and began to read aloud, again.

“‘We have now considered the globe of this earth as a machine, constructed upon chemical as well as mechanical principles, by which its different parts are all adapted…’ How fascinating!” she mused to herself, then she turned on her heel, book in hand, and walked further into the library—and therefore closer to where Sherlock sat. Sherlock did not feel the least bit embarrassed or anxious about his presence being discovered. He had been there first, after all. But as Ms. Hooper stepped into his line of sight, and saw him, she let out a cry of astonishment, her book flying out of her hands and landed in front of him.

Sherlock bent to pick it up, then stood and closed the remaining few steps between them, holding it out to her. As he did so, he caught sight of the title. _The Theory of the Earth_. His previous conjecture might not have been so precise. “Unusual reading material for a young woman,” he pointed out.

Ms. Hooper took the book from him, hugging it to her chest. Her cheeks were red, and she seemed determined to look anywhere else but at him. “My father used to read books of mathematics and science to me, just as often as he read tales of fairies and romance. He believed it was important for all young people to learn as much as they could.”

He blinked once. “That was not a criticism, Ms. Hooper, merely an observation. Young ladies of the _ton_ rarely put much thought toward the sciences.”

She glanced swiftly up at his face, her eyes searching, but before Sherlock could get a sense of what she might be searching for, she bobbed up and down in a curtsy, and left. He watched with confusion as she walked away. What had he said? Watson was always scolding him for being unkind, particularly toward women. He must have said something offensive, though he could not think what. Sherlock considered bringing the matter to Watson’s attention, but immediately dismissed the thought. Watson would likely view his curiosity as being a marked interest in her. No, it would not do. He would simply have to ask the lady herself what he had said. Watson would likely encourage him to apologize. He supposed it would be the acceptable thing to do. Sherlock sighed; socialization was so distasteful.

* * *

Dinner was announced some time later, and Sherlock bemoaned the tediousness to Watson. The former merely shook his head and laughed, stating that “the sooner they went down to dinner, the sooner it would be over.” Begrudgingly, the detective conceded, and the friends parted ways in order to dress for dinner. Upon joining the rest of the party, Sherlock noted the absence of Lady Anne. Sir Michael later stated that the hostess had taken ill (largely due to her pregnancy, Sherlock was certain), and would remain above stairs for the evening. As such, the typical pairing off according to status was, again, dismissed, in favor of the gentlemen choosing a dinner partner for himself.

Sherlock scanned the room for Ms. Hooper. She was by far the least objectionable lady, and should they be seated together, he could endeavor to discuss his earlier offense—whatever that offense was. To his dismay, Ms. Hooper had already been claimed by Sir Thomas himself. Which left only one single young woman available to take his arm… and he was loathe to ask her. He glanced at the remaining three gentlemen, whose names he had already forgotten—simply referring to them in his mind as the Fop, the Ginger, and the Grandfather—hoping one of them would request Ms. Hawkins’ company. However, they were clearly unwilling to do so, and Ms. Hawkins was approaching him. She did not speak, as the rules of propriety forbade her from such brazenness, but she clearly sought his attention, and he had no choice but to give it. With a sigh, Sherlock resigned himself to his fate.

“Would you care to accompany me, Ms. Hawkins?” he asked flatly, looking away from her whilst holding out an obligatory arm.

“It would be my pleasure,” she replied in a syrupy voice.

They entered the dining room at a horrendously slow pace. Sherlock glanced at the clock, determining the exact time it would be appropriate to excuse himself. He had an hour and twenty-six minutes of drudgery to endure before he would be able to retreat for the evening. In another situation, with another dinner partner, he might have been able to tune the conversations out, and focus on his own internal studies. As it was, Ms. Hawkins would likely pepper him with every dull and only slightly-differentiating question about his family, his fortune, and his social standing. Then she would proceed to bore him with her own tales of London and the parties therein, probably giving a detailed description of every gown she wore to every ball. How nauseating.

As luck would have it, however, Sherlock found himself seated across from Ms. Hooper. The evening would not be a total waste, it seemed. It would be inappropriate for him to discuss their encounter in the library, as it would undoubtedly be overheard, but at least he would not be confined only to Ms. Hawkins’ unabashed attempts at flirting.

The soup was brought directly, and Ms. Hawkins wasted no time in claiming his ear. “Mr. Holmes, I understand you live in London.”

Sherlock gave perfunctory answers to her questions, granting as little information and encouragement as possible, and biding his time until the conversation would inevitably lag, at which point he would be able to address Ms. Hooper. The woman in question conversed quietly and pleasantly with her cousin, avoiding his eye rather pointedly. Still embarrassed, he guessed.

At long last, one of the gentlemen—the Fop—asked the question that would guarantee a lull. “So, Mr. Holmes, is it true you are London’s premier crime-solving detective?”

“As the runners at Bow Street do not _solve_ crimes, merely _locate_ them, I would venture to say that I am the _only_ crime-solving detective in London.”

The Fop laughed boisterously at that. “Goodness, what a haughty gentleman you are!”

Sherlock opened his mouth to spout a retort about the man’s dandified appearance, but was cut off by Watson’s voice, two seats down from his place at the table. “Haughty does not begin to cover it, Mr. Royston. He almost fancies himself a god.”

“Thank you, _Watson_ ,” he growled.

“I rather enjoyed the one published in the paper last week. That man found dead in his home in… was it Gretna Green?”

Once again, Sherlock was ready to reply, but found himself being cut off. In this instance, however, it was not Watson, but the lady seated directly across from him, who replied, “Newcastle, actually.” All eyes turned to her, and she seemed to realize just what she had said. Her face burned scarlet, and she muttered hastily, “I overheard two gentlemen speak of it.”

“No,” Sherlock said without a thought, and Ms. Hooper’s brown eyes met his for the first time since the library. They were wide and frightened, confirming Sherlock’s suspicion. “You read it yourself.”

She gave a scoffing laugh that fooled all but himself. “Mr. Holmes, you flatter yourself, but I’m afraid you are mistaken.”

Her eyes turned pleading, and despite himself, Sherlock felt inclined to withdraw. “My apologies, Ms. Hooper,” he said. From the corner of his eye, he saw Watson’s obvious surprise, but he ignored it. “I suppose I was hasty in my conclusion. Nevertheless, you are correct. It was Newcastle.”

Relief flooded her expression, and the faintest smile curled her lips. Sherlock was then prompted by the Fop—Royston, he committed to memory—to recount the tale. As expected, the majority of the ladies present, and even certain gentlemen, wore polite smiles of indifference. Ms. Hooper and Ms. Morstan were positively enthralled, particularly the former of the two. Sherlock noted, the longer he spoke, and the more questions he asked, the more irritated Ms. Hawkins and her mother became. More than once, Mrs. Hawkins attempted to steer the conversation, and the attention of the party, to more trivial things, particularly those involving her daughter. But it was not to be borne; Mr. Royston continued to question him, and he continued to be grateful for a discussion he actually enjoyed. Royston’s reactions to the more grisly details were laughable (“La!” and “Sink me!” were among his favorite expressions), but Sherlock’s enthusiasm for his work encouraged him to carry on. Watson, too, chimed in on occasion with his personal slant on an anecdote.

Time seemed to pass by unnoticed, and of a sudden, it was announced that the ladies would withdraw, and the gentlemen would enjoy port and cigars. Sherlock eagerly partook of the cigar offered, delighting in the clearness of mind tobacco brought him. He took a glass of port, but left it untouched; tonight, he preferred not to become intoxicated.

“Sir Michael,” Royston spoke, once the drinks were poured and the ladies out of earshot, “your cousin is a peculiar sort of girl, is she not? Listening in on tales of murder and mystery? Most unusual.”

Sherlock felt an unexpected urge to defend Ms. Hooper, but was saved the effort as Sir Michal replied, “I fear I do not share your opinion, Mr. Royston. I believe she is fully able to partake in whatever form of amusement she deems fit for herself. She is a grown woman.”

“But surely, you do not deem it proper?”

“Propriety dictates only that it is unseemly for women to read the newspaper,” Sherlock took this opportunity to chime in, “among other specific activities. It does not prohibit them from _overhearing_ tales of murder and mystery, as you put it.” _But she_ did _read it_ , he added mentally.

Royston allowed that. “I suppose that is true. But she seemed to eat it up.”

“Perhaps Ms. Hooper is bored with society and all its falsehoods,” he retorted, leveling his gaze with Royston. The man squirmed, and another deduction was proved correct: this man was no more a dandy than Sherlock himself, simply a man with a mask. _What_ , precisely, he was endeavoring to mask, was neither here nor there.

“Just so,” Royston replied with an uncomfortable smile.

Sherlock’s mood soured. This was the very reason he detested house parties. People were infuriating, nothing more than play-actors with secrets to hide. For his part, Sherlock found the keeping of secrets both exhausting and ridiculous, and for that purpose, made little or no effort to hide his thoughts. As such, he was something of a social outcast, which suited him perfectly.

 _Then why_ , a voice asked from within his mind, _did you not out Ms. Hooper?_ The question nagged him for the remaining hour, until Sir Michael led the gentlemen into the drawing room, to rejoin the ladies. He found Mrs. and Ms. Hawkins engaged with Ms. Morstan and—oh, he’d forgotten her name, the married one—in a game of whist. Meanwhile, Ms. Hooper sat on her own, nose tucked in the pages of a book. A swift glance at the title deemed the book in question a silly romance, and he was disappointed for a moment. He remembered, though, that for Ms. Hooper to read books on science in the privacy of her own room was one thing, but in public was quite another. She had already been censured in secret by one of the party, and she would certainly be aware of the further criticism which her choice of book might bring upon her. Thus, a romance was the proper choice. _Damned propriety_ , he inwardly groaned, and made his way toward her.

As the shadow of his frame interrupted her reading, she lifted her head to regard him, and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment yet again. “May I join you, Ms. Hooper?”

Her mouth dropped open a fraction, but she quickly closed it, blinking rapidly. “Y-yes, of course.”

Sherlock lowered himself into the chair directly beside the sofa upon which she sat. With a sweeping glance about the room, he ascertained that they would not be overheard, and asked in a low voice, “You _did_ read the paper, did you not?”

She stiffened, and swallowed hard. “I do not know what you mean, Mr. Holmes.”

“You needn’t hide from me, Ms. Hooper,” he said, and her eyes met his abruptly. He smiled (a gesture he found seemed to encourage people to open up), and waited for her to speak.

She took a shuddering breath, then she closed her book and set it on the empty seat beside her. “Very well. Yes, I did read it. How on earth did you know?”

“Clues in your countenance,” he replied dismissively. “Your immediate, assertive response to Royston’s question, and the unparalleled terror in your eyes when you realized your mistake.”

Her blush deepened. “Very few people are aware of this… habit of mine.”

“I have no reason to go about tattling,” he pointed out. “You may be assured of my secrecy.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That is the second time you have directed those words toward me in only two days, Mr. Holmes. I fear you are learning all my secrets, and I, none of yours.”

Sherlock gave a quiet scoff. “I have no secrets to tell.”

Her head tilted to one side, and she regarded him with an appraising look. “No?” she asked in a tone that suggested she knew better, as did the unmistakable twinkle in her eyes. Sherlock resisted the urge to fidget in his seat. Never had anyone given him such a look, as if she could see into the very corners of his mind and soul. With a snap of his head, he turned away from her gaze and excused himself. He knew such actions were rude of him, and he would be forced to add this to the growing list of apologies he would have to make at a later date. For now, he needed to put as much distance as possible between himself and Ms. Hooper. He had a feeling she would present a very great danger, one which he was not at all eager to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously, the first excerpt read aloud by Molly is from Pride and Prejudice. Love that book, and that line in particular. The book was published anonymously in 1813, and I’m kind of imagining this story to take place 1815 or so. The second excerpt, as mentioned, is from The Theory of the Earth, which was written by James Hutton, a Scottish geologist, published in 1785. So yeah, just a bit of background info there. How did you like Chapter 4? Please review!


	5. Let the Games Begin

“I have a wonderful idea,” Mr. Royston announced to the party shortly following breakfast. He earned the attention of _almost_ everyone in the parlor—the only exceptions being Mr. Elwin, who remained immersed in his morning paper, and a certain detective, who seemed content to ignore the presence of everyone around him—and beamed with pride at his supposed brilliance. “It is such a lovely day, why don’t we all go for a picnic this afternoon? There is a quaint spot just beyond the grove, which overlooks a pretty prospect of the fishing pond and stream. I daresay it would be just the place for an outdoor luncheon!”

Sir Michael smiled. “I see no reason why not. My dear?” he directed his gaze toward his wife, who sat beside him on the sofa. “Do you object?”

She smiled sweetly. “Not at all. I shall make the arrangements directly.” And with this, she left the room to speak with the cook and servants.

“Splendid!” Mr. Royston exclaimed. “What a diversion this shall be—do not you agree, Ms. Hooper?”

Molly started briefly at being addressed by the flamboyant gentleman—startled further still by the sudden, sharp look she received from Mr. Holmes, upon whom her glance had, unfortunately, fallen at the initial suggestion, in order to gauge his reaction. It had been unsurprising, if slightly disappointing, to witness no reaction whatsoever—until her name was uttered. The moment his piercing eyes met hers, she forced her attention to the man addressing her.

With a demure smile, she replied, “Indeed, Mr. Royston. I myself prefer to be out of doors.”

“Precisely my thoughts, Ms. Hooper,” he nearly chortled, “precisely my thoughts! The crisp air, the brilliant sunlight, the bright, azure sky—”

“The tall trees,” she added, with another inadvertent glance at Mr. Holmes. His eyes, still fixed on her, narrowed slightly, though she could not determine if curiosity or annoyance prevailed in them.

“Yes, of course, the trees!” was Mr. Royston’s enthusiastic response. “I see, now, we are decidedly on the same page! Ms. Hooper,” he addressed her directly, and she somewhat reluctantly redirected her gaze to him. “I do believe you and I shall get along famously.”

He was entirely too bold in his flirtation, but Molly knew it was all in fun, and she was in no danger of being his conquest, nor the object of his infatuation. Matching his grin, she replied, “I hope so, Mr. Royston.”

At about half past one in the afternoon, the entire party was found making the short trek to the spot of Mr. Royston’s design, he himself leading the group, with Molly on his arm. His request had been quite adamant, and Molly had no right, nor reason to refuse him. They were followed, respectively, by Dr. Watson and Mary, Mr. and Mrs. Hathaway, Mr. Baines and Ms. Hawkins, Cousin Michael and Anne, Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins, and, bringing in the rear, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Elwin had elected to stay behind, giving an ill-thought excuse that he preferred the “safety of the indoors.” As Molly had heard the man boast of his hunting skills on numerous occasions, she knew this to be false, but he had received no argument from Michael, and therefore, she remained silent on the subject.

She recalled Mr. Holmes attempting to make his excuses, but he had been thwarted by his friend, Dr. Watson, who insisted that the fresh air and exercise would do him good. Molly had watched Mr. Holmes open his mouth to return, then clamp it shut upon receiving a sharp glare from Dr. Watson. With forced graciousness, he accepted, and nearly fled from the room, not to be seen until their departure.

Molly berated herself for taking such eager interest in the detective. Despite his varying behavior toward her, she was certain the man held no regard for her, except as a target for censure. Her own attraction to him was most inopportune, and despite repeated attempts to reverse it, the attraction persisted. _Would that he were not so handsome_ , she lamented silently. _Would that he would do something so ghastly, it would negate all positive feelings toward him!_ Alas, the most ghastly deed the man had done as of yet was to discover her penchant for reading the newspaper—stories of _him_ , no less! And this was no more his doing than any other man's; he likely would never have known, had she not so mindlessly corrected Mr. Royston at dinner last evening.

“You are far away, Ms. Hooper,” the man in question pointed out, drawing her attention to him, and to her surroundings. It appeared they had arrived at the picnic site. A large, white tent had been pitched at the most level spot, with servants waiting within to provide food and drink. Several blankets were spread across the grass in the shade of the massive trees behind them. Being on the western border of the grove, the shade would extend, providing ample enough protection from the sun’s harsh glare to render her parasol unnecessary. Molly was secretly delighted with this fact. The others walked past her and Mr. Royston, assuming their places on whichever blanket suited their fancy.

“Where have you strayed?” Mr. Royston asked.

She smiled apologetically. “Forgive me, Mr. Royston. I often become lost in my own thoughts.”

“No need to apologize,” he assured her. “Pray, were they interesting thoughts? Of course they were,” he answered his question with a laugh. “Anything to pass through that pretty head of yours could be no less that utterly captivating.”

Molly giggled, despite herself. “You are a horrible flirt, Mr. Royston.”

He cried in feigned offense, eliciting another laugh from her. “What effrontery is this? I’ll have you know, I am an _excellent_ flirt! Indeed, my talent for pleasing young ladies is matched only by my truly _impeccable_ sense of fashion!”

Now laughing much louder than was traditionally deemed appropriate for a young lady, Molly leaned against her escort. “Yes, who else among the _ton_ would wear such extravagant apparel?”

“You wound me, Ms. Hooper,” he drawled, putting a hand over his heart. “I can go no longer with this blatant assault on my very person. I declare, if it continues, I shall have to hang myself from a tree!”

“She would undoubtedly climb to your rescue,” a voice interjected from Molly’s left, and she cast a withering glance at Mary, who smirked in response.

Mr. Royston gave an exaggerated gasp. “Certainly not! Why, then you would undoubtedly fall and break your neck, and… oh, Ms. Hooper,” he lowered his voice to a comically tragic tone, gripping her hand in both of his. “Think not of it! For the world to be deprived of your smile is the greatest travesty!”

“Perhaps someone would be there to catch her,” came Mary’s smug reply.

Molly gave a strained laugh. “Mary is all jokes and games, Mr. Royston! Nonetheless, I shall promise not to climb after you, if you will promise not to hang yourself in the first place.”

He beamed. “Very well, you have convinced me. I shall live to see another day.”

They were joined in their laughter by the rest of the party, except for Mr. Holmes, who Molly believed she saw roll his eyes and mutter under his breath. She couldn’t be sure, but she believed the word “ridiculous” was included in his mumblings. Part of her was hurt by this appraisal, but she brushed that part aside. It _was_ ridiculous, and that, she concluded, was half the fun.

They lunched gaily in the cool shade, conversing with ease and friendliness. Molly was glad to sit near Mr. and Mrs. Hathaway, who only improved in her already high opinion of them. The young couple had been married but a few short months, and were utterly besotted with one another. They behaved not only as lovers, however, but as the very best of friends, each seeming to have a deep understanding of the other, beyond anything Molly, as an outsider, could comprehend. She envied their connection, and permitted herself a brief daydream of someday sharing such a connection with a man. A man who, she would never admit, had dark curls and quicksilver eyes…

“Shall we play a game?” Mr. Royston loudly asked the group as the luncheon was finished and cleared away. “Perhaps ‘Two Truths, One Lie’?” Greeted with a response in the affirmative from most everyone, he grinned and rubbed his hands together. “Excellent! I’ll begin, shall I? Right, then… I was born in Sussex, I have three elder brothers, and I have never in my life played croquet.”

“You were not born in Sussex,” a deep voice cut across, and all eyes turned to Mr. Holmes. “You were born in south Wales, which is evident by the subtle lilt to your speech.”

Molly held her breath through the few seconds of tense silence following his remark. The others, it seemed, were equally bemused, with the exception of Dr. Watson, who appeared… annoyed? Or was it disappointed? Mr. Royston cleared his throat. “Yes, Mr. Holmes… good show.”

“Truly, Mr. Royston?” Mrs. Hawkins called out. “You have never played croquet?”

He ducked his head in false embarrassment. “I am afraid not, Mrs. Hawkins. I have not yet attended a gathering in which it was requested, and I daresay my family has never had much use for the game.”

“Such a pity,” she clucked. “My dear Janine is _splendid_ at croquet!”

Molly resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Pleasantries were exchanged for a moment, then Mr. Royston redirected attention to the game they had begun. “Mr. Baines, I do believe it is your turn.”

Mr. Baines provided his “facts,” and Molly glanced at Mr. Holmes, expecting another terse deduction, but he remained silent, hardly paying heed to what was being said. She forced her gaze away, and tried to focus on the game. When it came to Mr. Holmes’ turn, he shook his head and declined to participate any further. Mr. Royston made to dispute this decision, but Dr. Watson cut across with a loud, “I think it is Mr. Hathaway’s turn, yes?” And so the game continued, skipping over the detective, much to his satisfaction, and Molly’s dismay. She had hoped he might reveal a secret or two in the course of the game—being convince that he did, in fact, _have_ secrets, despite his assertion to the contrary.

Mr. and Mrs. Hathaway took their turns, and at last, it was time for Molly to provide her truths and a lie.

“Well, now… let me think…” she mused, racking her brain for some appropriate tidbits, and one lie that might be convincing. She silently hoped Mary would be so good as to abstain from guessing, as there was little she had not divulged to her friend. After a short time, she made her selection, and spoke.

“I sprained an ankle while at the seashore on holiday with my father when I was ten, I am wildly afraid of heights, and… I have received three offers of marriage.”

Molly and Mary shared a smirk as the others burst into uproar. Mary, of course, knew that Molly had sprained her ankle at age _fourteen_ , and had been made privy to the offers shortly after their being made, and refused. Each gentleman was barely that, nothing but fortune-seeking rakes. As to her fear of heights, she had no doubts of their easy acceptance of this fact. Thus her surprise was paramount when, in the midst of an argument concerning how many marriage proposals she had _actually_ received, Mr. Holmes silenced them all by announcing confidently, “You are not afraid of heights.”

Her face warmed, and she quickly realized he was basing his assumption on their first, unofficial meeting. She prayed he would keep to his promise of secrecy, rather than reveal the humiliating truth to those who would condemn her.

“Come then, Ms. Hooper,” Mr. Royston prodded. “Which is the lie?”

Turning away from Mr. Holmes and his bewitching eyes, she stated simply, “I was _fourteen_ , not ten, when I sprained my ankle.”

“Ahh!” Mr. Royston cried gleefully. “What a clever trick! Such carefully selected truths! Why, you’re rather good at this game! Shall we play another round?”

Molly bit back an exasperated sigh, and Mary caught her expression of restraint. “Perhaps another game, Mr. Royston? One can, after all, have too much of a good thing.”

The remainder of the afternoon was spent in this fashion, playing silly games and engaging in light conversation. As the light faded and the air chilled, they stood and made their way back to the house to prepare for supper. The return journey was pleasantly calm and quiet, a comfortable stillness settling over the group. However, as they emerged from the grove, Molly felt a nagging sensation in the back of her mind. Her heart stuttered briefly, and the stillness seemed now oppressive. She glanced back at Mary, who, in a shared glance, conveyed her agreement, and one look at the frown marring Mr. Holmes’ features told her he, too, had felt the shift in the atmosphere.

Something was wrong.

A moment later, a maid sprinted from the house, calling out Sir Michael’s name in distress. She came to a stop before the party, and, after a few panted breaths, spoke again.

“Oh, Sir Michael, Lady Anne, it’s just dreadful! Absolutely dreadful!”

“What is it, Fanny?” Michael asked worriedly.

Her wide, frightened eyes swept over the guests of Bartholomew Place, before landing again on their host. “It’s Mr. Elwin, sir. He’s been murdered!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have absolutely no idea if the game “Two Truths, One Lie” was even thought of at this time. But it fit so well with the story, I couldn’t resist! And hello, plot twist! Haha let me know what you think!


	6. Clues and Letters

_Messy_ , Sherlock mused, glancing over the body of Mr. George Elwin. He had sustained several blows to the head, the weapon obviously being the bloodied Aphrodite figurine resting not far from his left elbow. In addition, his throat had been cut, his neck snapped, and he had been stabbed—nine times. _Messy_ , he repeated in his mind, _but thorough_.

Watson examined the body simultaneously, paying close heed to each specific wound. “Time of death, approximately four-thirty this afternoon. Less than half an hour before our return. It’s a wonder the servants didn’t notice his attacker. Killing someone in broad daylight, it’s risky.”

“It’s brilliant,” Sherlock grinned. “Oh, he’s clever.”

“Er, Sherlock?”

He turned to his friend, and fought the urge to cower under the disapproving look he received. His jaw twitched. “Not good?”

“A bit ‘not good,’ yes,” Watson agreed with a raised eyebrow. “Nevertheless, do feel free to elaborate.”

Sherlock did his best to hide his glee as he launched into an explanation. “The murderer was entirely unnoticed by our victim. He must have crept up quietly behind him, and snapped his neck. There’s very little bruising, which suggests Mr. Elwin did not resist. He was likely asleep at the time. Following that, his throat was sliced, evident by the amount of dried blood around the wound. It’s far greater than any of the wounds in his abdomen. The figurine bears no traces of fingerprints, nor does the knife. He is skilled, _very_ skilled, yet to the untrained eye, it looks like he was killed by a furious amateur, possibly out for some sort of revenge.”

“And to _your_ eye?”

He met Watson’s eye briefly, then he stooped and carefully opened Mr. Elwin’s waistcoat and lifted his shirt, revealing the nine stab wounds. Hidden beneath the torn fabric of his clothing, the wounds had appeared to be random. Sherlock, however, had caught the pattern, and now, revealing the bare skin, it was visible to all: a distinct, bloody letter “M.”

Watson’s brow furrowed. “What does it mean?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, “but whoever killed Mr. Elwin did not do so merely out of rage.” Sherlock looked at Watson again, his gaze weighted with his next words. “He is sending a message.”

The doctor’s eyes widened. He inhaled deeply, then expelled the breath slowly. “Well. We’ll have to inform Bow Street. You know how they are when you solve crimes without them.”

Sherlock chuckled softly. “Send word to Lestrade. I shall write Mrs. Hudson and have her send all my equipment as soon as possible.” His smile widened, and he looked at Watson with a gleam in his eyes. “The game is on!”

* * *

Dinner was a solemn affair; hardly anyone dared speak, except to ask for the salt. Even Mr. Royston, normally the life of the party, sat in pensive silence, and excused himself from the table even before port and cigars. Molly could not help but note Mr. Holmes’ absence through the entire meal, but did not comment until she and the other ladies were in the drawing room. Sitting beside Mary, whom she knew had been in conference with Dr. Watson, she asked her friend what she knew.

“Dr. Watson claims his friend does not eat while working on a case,” she explained. “Apparently, he believes it slows him down.”

Molly frowned. “Surely that cannot be healthy?”

“He has never become truly ill from this practice, so one might assume it is not entirely harmful.” Mary heaved a sigh. “Dr. Watson does not like it, but he said he has given up on the matter.”

The gentlemen rejoined them soon after, but in place of cards and conversation, the room remained in a state of grave reflection. Molly attempted to start on her needlepoint, but could not concentrate on the project, resulting in uneven stitches and more than one pricked finger. In lieu of getting spots of blood on her work—there had been more than enough bloodshed for one day—she set it aside, and quietly excused herself.

Molly’s steps were swallowed by the carpet, leaving her surrounded by an eerie stillness as she walked along the dark corridor to her room. She stopped just outside the library, however, her attention caught by a faint, flickering light from within the room. She had never before noticed any light at such an hour, and was instantly wary. Molly tiptoed toward the door, gently, carefully turned the knob, and stepped inside. The light, of course, came from the fireplace, though the flames were quite low, apparently neglected by the sole occupant of the room. Mr. Holmes lay stone-still on the sofa across the room, his legs crossed at the ankles, his fingers steepled and held beneath his chin. His eyes were closed, and he seemed wholly unaware of her presence.

_Leave_ , she ordered herself, but her feet rebelled, and instead led her closer to the oblivious man. Her breathing became shallow and erratic as she drew near enough to see the details of his features. He was far too handsome. Her eyes trailed over the long, straight nose, the sharp cheekbones, the full lips…

She gasped aloud, ashamed of herself for the turn of her thoughts, then held her breath, staring in horrified humiliation at Mr. Holmes, whose eyes had now opened. His gaze connected with hers, and for one tense moment, the world seemed to stand still. His eyes glistened in the firelight, and held a gleam of their own as he stared back at her. She could not decipher the look he gave her, and preferred not to make an attempt to do so. As the world turned again, she averted her eyes and blushed.

“I-I am sorry,” she whispered, for some reason afraid to speak any louder. “I did not mean… I saw the light and… I must go.” Molly fled, nearly crashing into Mr. Royston in her haste. She muttered a quick apology, not meeting his eyes, and not waiting for a reply before sprinting to her room.

* * *

Sherlock watched, bewildered, as Ms. Hooper tore from the room. He did not know how long she had been there, nor why she had become so embarrassed. But then, he knew very little about the inner thoughts and emotions of others, and women in general were an unsolvable mystery. His attention turned to Royston, who had entered just as Ms. Hooper left, and had now closed the door behind him. Royston faced him, and Sherlock slowly sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the sofa, now sitting properly. He waited, patiently, for Royston to speak.

“Mycroft sends his regards,” he said finally.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I might have known. Did he force you into the fop act?”

Royston grinned. “That has been my cover since the first day of my employment. No one suspects the idiot in pastels might have anything up his sleeve except chiffon. My disguise is my protection. One can never be too careful when one works for Mycroft Holmes.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock drawled. “Why did he send you here?”

“He received a letter some weeks ago,” he explained, crossing the room to sit in a nearby armchair. “He disregarded it at first, but he received a second, nearly identical letter, a week later. The message was the same, though written in a different hand. At that point, he thought it might be wise to investigate.”

“What did the letter say?”

“It said, ‘Tick-tock goes the clock.’”

Sherlock frowned. “Is that all?”

“Nothing else. Neither letter was signed, but the second bore the distinct scent of Jameson.”

_So, our murderer is most likely Irish_ , Sherlock noted, and filed this information away. “Most helpful,” he said, “but that does not explain why he sent you _here_.”

Royston’s left cheek twitched, but whether that was in an effort to hide a smile or a grimace, he could not say. He reached into the pocket of his coat, pulling a small, folded scrap of paper. He slowly stood, crossing over to Sherlock, and dropping the paper into his waiting hand. Sherlock unfolded it carefully, and when he read the words, his blood ran cold. He looked at Royston, whose mouth was pressed into a grim line.

“Mycroft received this a week after the second letter. He sent for me immediately.” He returned to his chair. “I don’t believe he knew Mr. Elwin’s fate, but he knew where you would be, and ensured I would be included on the guest list.”

Sherlock swallowed, nodding mutely. He lowered his eyes to the short note in his hands, rereading the message, and swallowing a second time. Sherlock was not accustomed to feeling fear; even now, he did not think what he felt could be categorized as such. Dread, certainly. Wariness, undoubtedly. Fear? That remained to be seen. But as he memorized the words on the small page, one thing he knew: this was no ordinary case.

_Tick-tock goes the clock;  
_ _Time’s run out for dear Sherlock._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter! Sorry about that. For those who may not know, Jameson is a brand of whiskey founded in Dublin, in 1780. And I do believe you’ve figured out who our murderer is. Really, though, did you expect anyone else?


	7. More Questions Than Answers

An express went out quite late that evening, to be delivered to the Bow Street Runners, providing as much detail of the murder as could be gleaned. The following day, Mr. Elwin’s body was taken to the vicarage on his estate and buried. Sir Michael and Mr. Royston were the only attendees, apart from the vicar, as the man had no family or close connections. The estate was less than half a day’s ride from Bartholomew Place, and the two gentlemen departed with their assurances that they would return the very next day.

Molly rose early in the morning, two days after the incident, to walk through the grove, weary of being inside the stuffy manor. The sun’s rays were just peeking over the distant horizon when she set out. As such, the air was still quite cool, and she made certain to wear her warmest spencer and bonnet. Her nose tingled in the chill, yet she smiled. How she loved being out-of-doors!

She told herself this was the reason for her early escape, and not the mortification of _that night_.

She was lying.

Her cheeks burned, even in the cool morning air. She ought to have known better than to spy on a man, let alone one so exasperatingly handsome as Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Her infatuation was getting out of hand; she needed to check herself before she lost her senses, and her heart. This man was clearly not one to be taken in by _any_ woman’s charms, much less a homely little eccentric such as herself. She would do very well to forget him, or at the very least, forget her attraction.

This, of course, proved easier said than done. Though Molly rarely saw his face in person (he had taken to shutting himself in his room with his recently delivered laboratory equipment), she was reminded of him in almost everything. At every meal, Mrs. Hawkins made some comment or other about the good fortune of having “our dear Mr. Holmes” present for such a catastrophe. Mr. Baines offered his arm at dinner the previous evening, and her first thought was of Mr. Holmes doing the very same for her the first time she met him. And this, of course, reminded her of the first time she _saw_ him, and her ever-blushing cheeks burned still at the memory of that encounter. And even now, wandering amongst the trees, she remembered his comparing them to London, claiming it helped him to think.

At that moment, Molly glanced up and saw the back of a gentleman, facing away from her. Her throat tightened at the sight; was it him? Was it Mr. Holmes? But on closer inspection, she could see that he was not quite as tall, nor as broad, As she approached, he turned to face her, and she recognized him instantly. It was only Mr. Baines! At this realization, she sighed in relief, and smiled politely.

“Good morning, Ms. Hooper,” he greeted her with a slight bow of the head.

“Good morning, Mr. Baines. You are up very early.”

“As are you,” he replied with a wry smile. “Couldn’t stand to be cooped up any longer, no doubt?”

She grinned. “Very astute, sir. I gather your reason is the same?”

“Quite. Shall we walk together?” he asked, and following her nod of consent, offered his arm to her. They walked in an amiable silence for some time, before Mr. Baines spoke again. “Aside from recent events, have you enjoyed your stay here?”

Molly laughed softly. “Yes, it has been very enjoyable, mysterious events aside.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“And you, sir?”

He nodded his head once. “I have never enjoyed myself so thoroughly at another house party.” Then he gave a short laugh. “Odd, that it should also be the most frightening I have ever attended.”

“You can be assured of never having a dull moment,” she pointed out.

“Indeed!” he agreed, chuckling merrily. “What stories I shall have to tell!”

Molly felt her smile growing as she and Mr. Baines continued to converse. She looked up at his face many times, and discreetly observed. Here was a man with no pretenses, no oddities about him, beyond the freckles dotting his entire face. But, she noted, those freckles somehow suited him. He was not an altogether unhandsome man, though he bore no striking features. And he was perfectly amiable and gentlemanlike. _Why can I not be attracted to him?_ Molly silently wondered. Indeed, before Mr. Holmes had come into her life, Mr. Baines had been the very sort of man she would have hoped for.

With that thought, Molly found herself comparing the two gentleman. Unfair as it was, she could not help but see the very obvious differences. Mr. Holmes, of course, had perfectly clear, pale skin. In addition, his jaw and cheekbones were highly prominent, as was the patrician line of his nose. And his lips… she felt herself blush yet again. They were much fuller than any man’s she had ever seen. But the most startling feature was the intensity of his eyes. Clear, blue-green eyes that seemed to see right through her. Though Mr. Baines’ eyes were a lovely hazel, they did not have the piercing quality of Mr. Holmes’ eyes. And, somehow, she sorely missed that sharp gaze.

“Ms. Hooper? Are you well?”

She started from a brief trance, her face growing warmer by the minute. “Forgive me,” she said, “I fear I have been lost in my own thoughts for some time. I hope I have not offended you.”

“Not at all,” he assured her. “I have done the very same thing myself, on a great number of occasions. No need to fear. However,” he added, “I must say, you do look a bit flushed. Perhaps we have walked too far?”

Molly was certain her face was entirely crimson by this point. “Yes, perhaps it would be wise to return.”

He gave another of his easy, friendly smiles, and they turned back toward the house. Molly took greater care to give Mr. Baines her attention, replying to his comments on the weather, the people staying at Bartholomew Place, and the coming ball. She had nearly forgotten about this occasion, and with the reminder came fresh thoughts of Mr. Holmes. _I wonder if he will attend_ , she mused. It would not be a surprise to her if he did not. In particular, the likelihood of his absence would increase, should the case of Mr. Elwin’s murder persist beyond that point. And, she thought with dismay, even if he _should_ attend, he would _not_ ask her for a dance. Of that she was certain.

“Here we are,” Mr. Baines said some time later, as they entered the house. “Safe and sound. I shall see you at breakfast.” And with a bow, he departed.

Molly removed her bonnet on the way to her room, and in the process, did not see the man standing directly in her path. She was not made aware of his presence until a familiar, low baritone washed over her. “Ms. Hooper,” the voice said, and she raised her head, giving a startled cry. In doing so, she found herself very close to the man she had spent the better part of the morning thinking about, her nose mere inches from the center of his chest.

“Oh, excuse me!” she muttered, bowing her head in shame and maneuvering around him. Once she had passed him, she quickened her pace, half-running to her room. She leaned against the closed door when she arrived, and huffed in annoyance with herself. Even with that brief encounter, she felt warm and flushed and slightly faint. Her breath came in short spurts, and her heart raced.

_Heavens above, what is the matter with me?_

* * *

Sherlock growled and tossed the now-crumpled letter across the room. _Nothing_. Not even the barest hint of a clue. He had studied, restudied, and studied again, the taunting words of the third note. He had even ripped off a corner of the page, which included a small portion of the “T” at the beginning of the message, in order to perform a chemical analysis. He found nothing that could point him in any specific direction. It was written with ordinary ink, on ordinary parchment, in a perfectly ordinary hand.

Frustrated with his fruitless efforts, Sherlock put on his coat with the intent of going for a walk. He had only just left his room when he noticed movement in the corner of his eye. Ms. Hooper was walking directly toward him, head bent as she removed her bonnet. Clearly, she had also sought to be out-of-doors this morning.

She continued walking, giving no indication that she had seen him. If she continued, she would run right into him. Rather than let this scene unfold, Sherlock caught her attention by saying her name aloud.

Ms. Hooper cried out in surprise, stopping just in time. Her nose was inches from his chest, and her face reddened, no doubt embarrassed by the proximity. To his surprise, Sherlock felt himself growing a bit warm. _Odd_ , he mused. He cared very little for the rules of propriety, and had certainly been closer than this to numerous women (though it had never been his doing). Yet his chest burned as Ms. Hooper came close, and he had to force a steady breath down his throat. _Odd_ , he thought again.

With a muttered excuse, Ms. Hooper side-stepped, and hurried along the corridor. Sherlock heard a door slam, and winced a bit at the sound. Perplexed and more than a bit impatient, he dismissed all thoughts of the encounter, and continued on his way.

Although Sherlock preferred London’s endless energy, the sounds and sights of the natural world did much to stimulate his mind. His thoughts quickened with his pace, sifting through every detail currently available to him. Three notes to Mycroft, the third bearing a threatening message, and his name. Elwin’s death might seem, to anyone else, entirely unrelated, but the timing of the notes and the murder were to precise to be dismissed as mere coincidence. And Elwin’s sizeable estate and adequate fortunes presented a tempting picture for many a young scoundrel on the streets. He’d heard whispers among the… _less_ elite, enough to conclude that this “M” character was not the first to have considered such a drastic path.

Of course, none of these _less elites_ were dense enough to actually go through with such a scheme. They already had numerous counts of harassment (unwarranted) and theft ( _very_ warranted) against them; to add murder to the tally would be the height of stupidity. No, this came from someone in a higher circle, perhaps even among those Elwin had considered his friends.

A startling thought brought Sherlock to a momentary standstill. The killer could be _here_ , at this very moment, in this very house party. One of the dozen or so men and women he had met within the last several days could easily have arranged the crime with one of the staff, or even his or her own personal servant. With the exception of Watson and himself, every guest had brought a lady’s maid or a valet to attend them, and such high-ranking servants tended to be particularly loyal… or quite the reverse.

For one moment, Sherlock entertained the possibility of Elwin’s own valet being the culprit, but quickly dismissed the idea. The valet had been engaging in an affair with one of the housemaids, and was indisposed when his master was attacked. No, the valet was out. But the loyalty of someone else’s valet, or lady’s maid, could spur them into action…

Satisfied with the progress he’d made, Sherlock pivoted and returned to the house. Sir Michael and Royston would be returned by dinner tomorrow, at which time, he would begin questioning the guests and servants. Until then, he would do what he did best. _Observe_.

* * *

To Molly’s surprise, and mortification, Mr. Holmes finally showed himself at dinner that evening. He said very little, even when directly spoken to, thus she ventured to stay silent. With Michael still at Mr. Elwin’s estate, and dear Anne so troubled and tired from all the commotion, she had again requested a more casual approach to the seating arrangements. Molly ducked her head to hide a smile as she watched Dr. Watson make a beeline for Mary, and her smile grew at the rarely-seen blush now gracing her friend’s cheeks. How lovely to see the tides turned for a change!

“Miss Hooper.”

She gasped sharply and pressed a hand over her heart. “M-Mr. Holmes!” His eyes widened and he reared back slightly at her unexpected volume, and Molly’s face warmed. _The tables have turned back, it seems…_ “I am so sorry, forgive me!”

A small, puckering frown pulled at his brow. “Forgive _you_? Whatever for? You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Would the humiliation never end? “I… suppose that is true.”

“Forgive _me_ for startling you,” he offered with a slight bow of the head. He began to straighten his posture, then paused, his expression serious. “And… for a number of other things.”

Molly blinked slowly. “What other things?”

He met her gaze, and a tremor shot down the length of her spine. Those eyes narrowed a fraction, but the act was so brief she was half-convinced she had imagined it. The next moment, he stood straight, and held out a hand to her. “Perhaps we might discuss it over dinner?”

She blinked again, not entirely sure she had heard correctly. Had this wild, handsome enigma of a man truly asked to accompany her to dinner for a _second_ time? When that pucker formed between his eyebrows again, she realized she had been staring at him outright. Molly softly cleared her throat and took his offered hand, and as she did so, his frown smoothed into a satisfied grin. If he noticed the way her knees trembled as she stood, he made no comment. In fact, he said nothing more to her as he led her into the dining room, and instead seemed rather focused on… well, anything but her. Had he not requested her company in order to continue their conversation? Why, then, did he show so great an interest in looking anywhere else?

For a man who was so terribly good at solving mysteries, he was also rather adept at _becoming_ one.

**Author's Note:**

> Hooooooly smokes, this has been a long time coming! As is often the case, my original plan for this story has been shot to hell, and is being replaced with one the characters are creating for themselves. Damn cheeky bastards can’t stay on the page/screen where they belong, they have to get in my head, too! (Who am I kidding? They’re always in my head.) Thank you to all my patient readers, few in number though you may be. You are my inspiration, my compass, my support, my raison d’être. Love you all!


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